


Eres Buscabulla (Y Me Gusta)

by jimmytiberius



Category: Baseball RPF, Washington Nationals RPF
Genre: 2019 NLCS, Improper Use of the Dugout, Journeymen with Feelings, M/M, Warning: Contains Calma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 12:18:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22743826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jimmytiberius/pseuds/jimmytiberius
Summary: The night they win the pennant is one for the books.
Relationships: Brian Dozier/Yan Gomes
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	Eres Buscabulla (Y Me Gusta)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to SDS for egging me on. When Brian Dozier poured beer on Yan Gomes' nipples on live TV, this was bound to happen, it was only a matter of time.
> 
> Title is of course from Calma, and translates to "you're a troublemaker (and I like it)".

The night they win the pennant is one for the books.

The clubhouse is a rowdy mess, the crowd refuses to leave even though it’s after midnight and the metro is long since closed, everyone keeps running out for more curtain calls. They’ve swept the Cardinals, and Yan may not have been anywhere near here in 2012, but he remembers watching the NLDS from his couch, fresh off his first call up to the Blue Jays, and thinking, that’s gotta sting. There aren’t many of those guys left on the roster, but the fans remember, and Yan feels all of his 32 years, thinks about the veterans who came before him and got to his age and past it and never felt this joy. There’s a weight to it, a solemnity, a responsibility. Carrying that legacy.

He looks up from his moment of introspection and snorts.

Brian Dozier has a slightly different approach to the responsibility of being a veteran.

He’s dancing in the middle of a circle of guys, shirtless, of course. Yan’s joined him in that in their last couple of clubhouse celebrations (oh, the luxury of that plural) but has been hanging back slightly tonight, a little too awed by what they’ve done and where they’re going, and it looks like Dozier’s just starting to notice.

Dozier catches his eyes and starts singing directly at him, loudly and badly. It’s not Calma for once – Yan thinks it might be something by Thalía? – but the message is the same. Get your ass over here, Gomes, and dance with me.

Yan goes, letting the music and the chaos start to fill him, feeling the bass vibrate in his rib cage. He snakes his way through the sea of ecstatic sweaty bodies and heads straight to Dozier. Immediately he gets his shirt yanked up over his head for his trouble, and oh, he’s getting beer poured on his nipples again, cold and fizzy and tingling. Dozier’s laughing, pulling his shirt the rest of the way off, saying something in Spanglish he can’t quite catch, running his big square hands over Yan’s sticky shoulders. Then he turns around and, of course, starts twerking his ass up against Yan’s crotch, and the guys all around them catcall and whistle and laugh, and Yan gives himself over to the noise and light and color and sensation.

Later, much later, he finds himself the last guy left in the showers. The reporters are finally gone. The clubhouse is… quiet. With the off days and the upcoming road trip, there’s no real pressure to clean everything up in the wee hours of the morning, so even the most ubiquitous clubbies seem to have actually gone home. He tilts his head back in the spray, letting some of that awe from earlier bubble back up. He feels like his skin is glowing around him in the steam. It’s a tingling feeling, not quite an itch, not unpleasant but pulling at his attention. Like his whole body knows they won. Like anything is possible.

He pads out in a towel and shower shoes, stops at his stall, and has just pulled on shorts when he realizes he’s not quite alone after all.

Dozier’s still there, slouched back in a folding chair with his eyes closed and smiling slightly, still wearing his beer-soaked uniform pants and nothing else. His hair is a mess. He looks like most of a liquor store has been emptied onto his body, and like he’s happy about it. He looks the way Yan feels.

“Doz,” Yan says softly, not sure if he’s awake. The word echoes in the empty locker room. Dozier opens his eyes and his smile widens.

“C’mere,” he drawls, thick as honey, sweet as victory. “I wanna show you something.”

Yan walks toward him, unsure, but knowing better than to argue with a win-drunk Brian Dozier. Dozier stands up in one fluid motion – maybe he’s not so drunk after all? – and grabs Yan by the hand. Pulls him, stopping just long enough to kick on flip-flops, then out of the locker room, down the hallway, into the tunnel and out, out, into the dugout and up against the rail.

The stadium lights are off. The stands are empty.

The sound of traffic echoes somewhere in the distance, but here, it’s quiet. The vendors are gone, the signs advertising Change Up Chicken and Frozen Rope all dark. The stars glimmer faintly above, just visible in the haze and light pollution. There are probably more construction cranes than stars. But the moon shines brightly, almost full. The infield dirt stretches out in front of him, all shades of silver and gray.

It’s – not warm, and Yan shivers slightly, standing there in just basketball shorts and shower shoes. Dozier drops his hand and steps back, and Yan hears him click on one of the space heaters under the bench. It hums to life immediately, breaking the spell of silence, but also whirring out warm air, and Yan almost wonders why they’re here. Almost knows.  
Behind Yan, there’s a glow suddenly, and he turns around to see Dozier fiddling with his phone. “Calma” comes on, of course. Because Brian Dozier doesn’t do anything these days without that damn song playing in the background.

Dozier puts down the phone and turns back to Yan. Looks at him from under lidded eyes, and Yan no longer has any doubt.

Dozier starts singing along, quietly and off key, and he should look ridiculous in his half a uniform and wild hair. He doesn’t.

“Cuatro abrazos y un café, apenas me desperté… y al mirarte recordé que ya todo lo encontré,” he whisper-sings, and Yan’s first language may be Portuguese but his Spanish is damn good too. Not to mention, he speaks Brian Dozier.

Dozier shimmies toward him, still singing. “Tu mano en mi mano,” and actually takes Yan’s hand again, warm wide palm sliding over Yan’s calluses. “De todo escapamos,” and his other hand is sliding over Yan’s shoulder, his bicep, and his mouth is almost brushing Yan’s ear. “Juntos, ver el sol caer…”

The song continues behind Dozier as he pushes Yan against the railing. Pauses just long enough for a breath, just long enough for Yan to object. Instead, Yan leans in.

Dozier is warm, improbably, throwing off even more heat than the space heater behind him. His lips are plush against Yan’s, and Yan thinks he can actually taste his Mississippi accent as he opens his mouth to deepen the kiss. He can definitely taste the beer, though Dozier doesn’t seem drunk. He’s careful and focused, kissing Yan languid and filthy, and in spite of the October chill, Yan can feel his dick responding to Dozier’s warmth.

Dozier presses their chests together, smooth with just a tickle of hair. He breaks the kiss to breathe into Yan’s neck, “Todo el mar Caribe, viendo tu cintura,” and grab onto Yan’s waist, his hips. Then they’re kissing again, grinding hips together, and yeah, his dick is responding to that.

Dozier definitely notices, pressing his own growing hard-on closer to Yan’s, but he seems to be in no rush, content to lean his weight into Yan’s and pin him there as they kiss. Yan is taller, but Dozier is solid, and Yan has seen him in the weight room, knows how much power is in those legs that ground the two of them against the railing. Yan feels like he’s floating as they kiss, like his feet are barely touching the ground and the only thing keeping him upright is where he’s connected to Dozier at their mouths, bellies, groins. He decides to test that by hooking one foot around Dozier’s calf and is rewarded by a soft grunt and Dozier reaching up with one hand, to grab him by the nape of his neck, and down with the other, to cup Yan’s ass through his shorts.

Yan’s just starting to give as good as he gets, biting Dozier’s bottom lip and pressing his thumb into his jaw, when Dozier abruptly pulls away. Yan whines, and Dozier chuckles and leans back in for a peck, surprisingly innocent. Behind him, Pedro Capó’s voice is telling them to take it slow like Fonsi would, and Dozier nuzzles into Yan’s neck, scraping teeth down to his collarbone before leaning (not that far – Yan really is a lot taller) down to find his nipples. No one’s ever paid them much attention before, but Yan can’t be surprised Dozier’s into that, and he finds with a shock that he is too, squirming and gasping as Dozier sucks and bites and twists. He’s fully hard from this, more than, and never would’ve predicted it, but then Brian Dozier has always been full of surprises. He tangles a hand into Dozier’s hair, and Dozier seems to like that, looking up at him with eyes wide and hot pink mouth slack.

With all the promises of that mouth, Yan could cry when he pulls away, but then it’s just to drop to his knees and – oh – he’s pulling Yan’s shorts down – oh – and he hardly notices the cold air on his suddenly exposed ass before Dozier’s hands are cupping both cheeks, hot breath on his dick and then his tongue peeks out and – oh. It’s hot and wet as Dozier tongues his slit, and Yan throws his head back and moans.

It echoes in the empty stadium, shockingly loud even with the music and the heater on, and Yan spares a fleeting thought to how he must look, pressed back against the dugout railing, shorts around his thighs, bare ass shining in the moonlight. It’s close to 4am, and if anyone’s left somewhere in the shadows of the park, he thinks they’ve about earned the view. With a shock that’s almost shame, he finds that thought sends a hot frisson down his spine, and oh, he’ll have to revisit that later, because now Dozier’s biting at his hipbones, snaking a hand down to cup his balls, licking and kissing and doing just about everything except sucking his dick.

“Come on, come on,” he gasps vaguely downwards, afraid to make too much noise now but feeling like he might burst from all the teasing, and Dozier slides one finger up the crack of his ass and oh, that’s better and worse. “Come on,” he pants again, and Dozier scrapes his stubble against the soft skin of Yan’s thigh and drawls, “Is that the nicest you can ask?”

“Please,” Yan pants out immediately, because it’s not like he has any shame left, but Dozier huffs a laugh that he feels more than hears.

“Please what?”

“Please,” Yan whines, and tries to press his hips forward, but Dozier holds him in place, won’t let him. Dozier’s weight and strength against that of a catcher’s lower half, and Dozier’s winning, not letting Yan do anything but squirm against the cold railing.

Again, and this time it’s almost a growl against the salsa beat that’s come on in the background, Dozier asks, “Please what?”

“Please suck my dick,” Yan gasps, and he’s rewarded with a hot kiss to the tip, but it ends too soon and Dozier doesn’t let up the pressure against his hips.

“Please suck my dick, what?” and Yan can’t take it any more, squeezing the railing behind him with both hands and shivering.

“Please suck my dick, Brian,” he groans, “please, I need it, come on,” no longer caring about volume. Dozier licks him once, root to tip, then stops again, and Yan’s thighs are shaking, he can’t, he can’t.

“Tell me why you deserve it,” Dozier says hoarsely. “Tell me what you did tonight.”

Yan has to think, really think, because everything before the final out has run together into a blur of light and color. “I drove in two runs,” he says, finally. “And we won.”

“You drove in two runs and caught the last out and we won the NL fucking pennant,” Dozier growls, and then his mouth is around Yan’s dick, hot and slick and taking him deep, finally, finally.

He also releases Yan’s hips from their iron hold and reaches back around to Yan’s ass, pulling him forward as he slides his mouth all the way down, and that’s all the permission Yan needs to start fucking Dozier’s throat. He doesn’t know if he could stop himself, so it’s a good thing Dozier moans, long and low, the vibration zinging through Yan’s entire body somehow, and Dozier tilts his head back to take it.

He really looks like he likes it, eyes fluttering shut and spit running down his chin. Yan reaches for his hair and Dozier moans again, letting go of Yan’s ass with one hand and Yan can’t see but he knows he’s palming himself through the uniform pants he still has on. The thought gets Yan impossibly hotter, and he’s not gonna last much longer, pistoning his hips faster into the tight perfect warmth of Dozier’s mouth.

The hand that’s still on his ass squeezes hard, starts to move inexorably toward his crack, and Yan isn’t so sure but would do anything Dozier wanted right now, if only he won’t stop. The tip of one blunt finger presses, gently but firmly, against his asshole, and he can’t believe he never noticed how big Dozier’s hands are. It’s too dry with nothing but his sweat, but Dozier seems content just to press that finger against him, not trying to push inside. Not yet, anyway, until Dozier pulls back on his dick partway, and Yan feels his other hand against his dick, joining it in Dozier’s mouth. Then that other hand comes up to join the first, and a slick finger is pressing, pressing, inexorably, and Dozier swallows around him and he must relax from it because suddenly he’s breached, just slightly, but that finger is thick and blunt and oh. There’s a new pressure behind his balls, hot hot tight soft throat squeezing around his dick, and that probing finger just barely in his asshole, too much and not enough, and his back hits the railing with a clunk as he comes, suddenly and spectacularly, down Brian Dozier’s throat.

Dozier somehow stays perfectly still through it, riding out the erratic jerking of Yan’s hips, then pulling off slowly, gentling Yan through the shudders that keep running through him for what seems like forever. His finger slides out slowly too, and Yan keens at the loss. His legs finally give out, and as the Mandarin remix of Despacito comes on Dozier’s phone a few feet away, he starts to slide down the railing.

Dozier catches him, because of course he does, and he finds himself lowered gently to the ground. Dozier leans over him, kisses his brow, and Yan turns his face up to catch his mouth with his own. He tastes, well, like come, but it’s Yan’s come, and his mouth is still gentle, and it’s kind of gross but also perfect.

But Dozier is still hard, and Yan tries to reach out through the haze he’s in, running his fingers over the bulge in Dozier’s pants. Dozier pulls away, and says, roughly, “Here, just let me…”

He helps Yan prop himself into a sitting position against the railing, shorts still stretched around his thighs, softening dick still hanging out against his thigh. Dozier looks him up and down, eyes darkening, then stands, one foot on either side of Yan’s legs, and unzips his fly.

He pulls out his dick, which is so hard it looks painful, leans forward, rubs it against Yan’s cheekbone a couple of times. Yan reaches out to thumb the head, and Dozier groans low in his throat.

“I’m almost there, I just need…” He leans back, jacks himself a couple of times. Looks at Yan, then out at the field, at the empty stadium around them.

His phone has finally stopped playing music, and in the sudden quiet, Yan can almost see him replaying the night in his head – the roar of the crowd, the yells of their teammates, the fireworks. His eyes well up a little in spite of himself. How much he’s wanted this, how much Dozier must have wanted this, all those years on losing teams or teams that didn’t quite make it all the way, sometimes just hanging on to the bottom of the roster. He feels the enormity of what they’ve done all over again, and it’s so incongruous, but here he is, mostly naked on the cold dugout ground, watching his teammate jack off above him, and he’s never felt more like a champion.

Dozier’s hand starts to speed up, and Yan wonders if he even knows he’s there any more, but suddenly Dozier looks back down at Yan, gaze raking over him, and then he’s coming all over Yan’s chest, his nipples, his throat.

It’s hot and sticky, and that’s another new experience, but Yan reaches up and rubs his hands up and down Dozier’s thighs, tilting his head back and letting himself be covered in every last drop. For such a mouthy bastard, Dozier is surprisingly quiet as he comes, silently but thoroughly falling apart.

When he’s done, finally, he braces himself against the rail for a few long seconds, then stands and reaches a hand down to pull Yan up. Yan stands shakily, pulls his shorts up, then leans down to kiss Dozier again, lightly, more than anything to spread Dozier’s come from his chest to Dozier’s own.

Dozier pulls away, snickering, chest hair now matted and sticky. “You asshole.”

“Hey, who’s the asshole?” He shoots back. “Now I gotta go shower again.”

“Now that you mention it…” Dozier’s stooped over to turn off the heater and retrieve his phone, but he turns back, eyes darkening all over again. “I might be able to help you with that.”

Yan swats him on the ass, still wearing those goddamn uniform pants, and shoves him toward the tunnel. As Dozier starts to head back inside, toward the light and warmth, Yan allows himself one more look out at the empty stadium. The darkness and silence weigh on him, like a promise. Alone, warm from the inside and filthy on the outside, he knows, just knows, they’re going to win it all.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sorry. Happy spring training!


End file.
